


All the Leaves are Brown

by writeivywrite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, frequent and pretentious music references, including miley cyrus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/pseuds/writeivywrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer before Zayn's final year at uni and he's got it all sussed. Or so he thinks until he meets Harry and realises that he doesn't know a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Leaves are Brown

_May_

 

 

The kid gets there just after nine. He’s trying hard not to look like one, his chin up as he walks into the living room, but Zayn isn’t fooled because only a kid would crash a house party at nine o’clock. Usually, he’d sling him out because he doesn’t need the drama. He just wants to play some records and chill without having to deal with a drunk teenager breaking shit then puking on the patio. But under all his swagger, Zayn can see how nervous he is and catches himself smiling as he remembers how he used to crash his cousin’s parties with his mate, Ant, when they were his age. There’s an art to it, they learned, you can’t get there too early because someone will notice and kick you out, but you can’t get there too late, either, because all the booze’ll be gone.

It’s all about timing and the kid’s missed the mark by about an hour because Zayn hasn’t even finished setting up his decks yet and his sister, Doniya, is still in his room with her mates straightening her hair. When the kid realises that the living room is empty, Zayn watches the skin between his eyebrows pinch and is sure he’ll leg it, but to his credit, he recovers quickly and nudges his mate, a thin guy with fragile features and a gap between his teeth who looks even younger. He’s noticeably relieved when the kid nods towards the door, but he knows they’ll be back because Zayn’s seen this kid before, Instagraming the window at Piccadilly Records and the cardboard dividers that separate the vinyl. ( _DOWNBEAT WEIRD SHIT – BALEARIC_ is his current fave.) He even showed up at the 42’s one night and clambered up to the decks to tell Zayn to play an Arctic Monkeys track. Not ask, _tell_ , his eyes bright and his curls wilting in the muggy club.

But if that’s what he’s come for, he’s going to be disappointed because what will get the crowd at 42’s going is not what his mates want to hear at all. So, in case he hasn’t realised it yet, Zayn puts on a Naughty by Nature track and turns it up so loud that he can feel the buzz of it in his bones. But to his surprise, the kid and his mate wander back into the living room, heads nodding. They’re holding cans of _Red Stripe_ that must still be warm because Zayn only dumped them in the dustbin of ice by the back door ten minutes ago. His mate winces when he takes a gulp, but for the kid, the beer is just a prop, like the Joy Division t-shirt and the too new _Converse_ and the jeans slung _just so_ on his hips. He has as much interest in the beer as he does in Joy Division, but he obviously thinks it makes him look older so Zayn knows that he’ll hold the can all night if he has to.

When he remembers the first time Ant knocked back a shot of tequila and puked, Zayn chuckles to himself, surprised by how much he notices in those few moments. He would have anyway, he thinks, because the kid doesn’t look like the people he usually hangs around with who favour DMs to _Converse_ and Naughty by Nature to Joy Division. But his mates are no less deliberate, not because they’re trying to look older but because they’re trying so hard to look different, their shirts buttoned to the collar and their forearms laced with tattoos. Anything not to look like the lads they go to uni with who swagger around Manchester in parkas and _Lacoste_ hi tops in the same way this kid probably thinks he’s different from the people he goes to school with. So Zayn leaves him be because he knows what it’s like to be the only one at school who’s dreams extend further than two weeks in Kavos in July and United winning the FA Cup.

But if he pukes on the patio, he’s cleaning it up himself.

 

+++

 

Zayn’s not staring at him, except he is. Mercifully the living room is fuller now and it’s just dark enough in there that he hopes it isn’t too obvious. Not that the kid notices as he and his mate settle into a corner. But maybe he does, because when he leans against the wall he cocks his hip. It’s no accident, Zayn’s sure, because it makes his t-shirt ride up enough to show Zayn just how low his jeans are slung on his hips, and when the kid lifts his eyelashes to look at him, Zayn knows it definitely wasn’t an accident.

He has to look away then as he realises that if he hooked a finger into one of the kid’s belt loops and tugged, they’d probably fall right down. The thought makes the hair on his arms bristle as he kneels down to the box of records at his feet to find the Shide Boss song he knows will get Doniya and her mates on the coffee table. He waits a second before he stands up again because it’s been a while since he’s felt that, whatever it is that’s making his hands shake as he takes the record out of the sleeve and puts it on the turntable. He catches himself tugging on the tuft of hair under his bottom lip with his finger and thumb as he does and stops himself because that’s his tell, Ant says.

When Zayn likes someone he plays with his beard.

Ant first noticed it one drizzly Saturday afternoon while they were plundering the used section at that record shop back home. ‘Here we go again,’ Ant said with a theatrical sigh, much to Zayn’s bemusement. He thought he was referring to the Chic LP he was considering (Zayn’s weakness for disco something his friend still hasn’t made his peace with) but when he realised that Ant was referring to his goatee, Zayn stopped. He was only fifteen so goatee is generous, but it was just thick enough to remind him that he wasn’t a kid anymore and when he realised he was tugging it and gazing longingly at the guy behind the counter, that reminded him that he wasn’t a kid anymore, either.

His name was Johnny. Zayn could laugh about it now. The record shop was called Discovery of all things, which, with hindsight, is pretty apt given it’s not just the first place he heard Gil Scott Heron, but also the first place he discovered how much he enjoys being fingered. So he digs out the Chic LP, closing his eyes and inhaling the smell of it – old paper and cigarette ash and something else that will forever remind him of heaving his record box off the 634 bus on a Saturday night – as he wonders what happened to that kid, the one with the patchy goatee who bought almost every record in Discovery before he summoned the courage to ask Johnny what song was playing. Maybe that’s what the kid is doing, Zayn thinks as he sneaks another look at him before turning back to his mate. Maybe he hopes the can of _Red Stripe_ he’s drinking at last will give him the fortitude to come over and tell him to play an Arctic Monkeys track.

Zayn can wait.

 

+++

 

He’s got some bollocks, Zayn thinks just before midnight. The flat is heaving. More of his mates have just come in from the pub, full of beer and ready to start on the spirits, so he puts on Mundian To Bach Ke and well, rowdy doesn’t begin to cover it. The living room is shaking so much the record skips and when Doniya’s mate, Faryal, starts banging on some bloke’s arse like a dhol, Zayn looks over at the kid, but he doesn’t seem fazed at all, his eyes wide as Zayn turns the volume up and rowdy descends into chaos.

The kid’s mate, however, doesn’t look as in awe of what’s going on and keeps tugging on his t-shirt and nodding at the door. The kid ignores him, though, gasping and clapping when Zayn’s cousin, Jas, clears a space in the middle of the living room and starts dancing. They must be pretty good friends, Zayn thinks, because he stays. He would have left his arse, especially when the kid raises his arms and tries to copy Jas. He has no rhythm whatsoever and he’s spilling beer all over himself, but the effort is appreciated, especially by Doniya who grabs his wrist and pulls him into the fray.

Zayn looses him then as he’s swallowed by the tangle of people filling the living room. Every now and then he thinks he sees a hand or a flash of the kid’s curls between the heads and he doesn’t even know why he’s looking for him. But then Zayn hears a laugh he’s never heard before, something new and bright interrupting the familiar refrain of his mates cheers, and he knows why he’s looking. The kid must be looking for him, too, because when Faryal pulls Doniya onto the coffee table with her, there’s suddenly a gap in the crowd and when Zayn looks through it, their gaze collides. Every hair on Zayn’s body bristles this time, as though someone has opened a window. Then the kid smiles, a loose, unpretty smile, as though he can’t help it, and Zayn doesn’t realise that he’s forgotten to put on the next record until the cheers turn into boos.

 

+++

 

By three things have calmed down somewhat. He’s playing a Bob Marley song, which seems fitting given the heavy cloud of smoke hanging over everyone’s heads. Usually the smell of weed makes him sleepy, but Zayn’s heart is hysterical as he looks across the living room at the kid. He’s not used to this. The best thing about blokes is that they don’t fuck about. There’s no idle flirting, no teasing texts. There is, of course, but most of the time – in Zayn’s experience, anyway – if a bloke likes you, he lets you know, whether that’s with a wink or a hand down the front of your jeans.

But this kid is all eyelashes and smiles and Zayn doesn’t know what to do. If he was interested he would have come over by now. That’s what Zayn would’ve done, what he did with Johnny at Discovery. It may have taken him a month to do it, but when he finally summoned the courage to ask him what song was playing, he knew that he was showing off when he compared it to Solomon Burke and he knew that he was flirting when he complimented Johnny on his lip ring. But it worked because it led to Zayn’s first kiss against a Smiths poster, Morrissey looking at him as if to say, _Go on, my son_.

The kid hasn’t gone near him all night, though, and that’s fine (Zayn’s used to the guys who bat their eyelashes and flirt, maybe even let him suck their dick, but run a mile when he asks them to return the favour) but it’s getting tiresome now. He used to enjoy torturing them. It wasn’t fair, he knows, but he loved how confounded by him they were. How confounded they were by it _all_ , by how they always ended up in the corner of the pub with him, telling him their secrets, and the hugs that lingered a moment more than was comfortable. They’d look at Zayn like they were relying on him to explain it to them, as though they were lost in another country and he was the English-speaking stranger with the kind smile who’d make sure they’d find their way back to their hotel.

 _Explaining it_ usually involved a kiss and when they pulled away, another one that was firm enough to make them open their mouth. That’s the bit Zayn enjoyed most, more than the clumsy, eager hand jobs and the frantic shags, he liked feeling them give into it – to him – as he palmed the front of their jeans and breathed, ‘Show me.’ He’d smile when they covered his hand with theirs and panted his name into his mouth, but now it’s not so fun to have that I-honestly-don’t-know-what-came-over-me conversation that makes Zayn’s cheeks sting as he says, ‘Me.’ He can’t keep doing that, can’t keep watching someone walk out of a room when he walks in and pretend that he doesn’t care. So he gestures at Jas, to take over on the decks while he heads outside.

This is it, he thinks when he does, if the kid’s interested, he’ll follow. But he doesn’t and despite lingering on the patio long after he’s finished his cigarette, when he gives up and goes back inside, the kid is in the same spot. Now he’s surrounded by Doniya and her mates, who are fussing over his curls while they persuade him to do shots. He’s clearly loving it, his eyes bright and his mouth wet, but his mate isn’t so much. The guy looks petrified, his hand shaking as Doniya gives him a glass. He sniffs it then knocks it back and as soon as he does, he pulls a face as though someone’s come in his mouth without warning and Zayn can’t help but laugh as he walks towards the decks.

 

+++

 

By four, the kid’s mate is done even pretending that he wants to be there and is slumped in an armchair looking miserable while Doniya cackles and wraps her scarf around the kid’s head. It’s a pink and black leopard print thing he seems to have no objection to being seen in, which makes Zayn smile in spite of himself, so when she takes his hand and tugs him out of the living room with a grin, the sting is twice as sharp.

It’s not the first time Zayn’s got it wrong – and it won’t be the last – but it is the first time he’s lost a guy to his sister, something he always thought would be mildly amusing. But when he shakes his head and bends down to get another LP out of his record box, he finds himself wishing that he’d slung the kid out when he had the chance.

 

+++

 

By five, the sun is up and Zayn is flattened by a wave of tiredness. It’s not just Doniya and the kid, he always gets like this at the end of a party. He’s never quite sure _when_ it’s going to happen, all it takes is one more puff or gulp of beer and he’ll go from _Who wants to hear some Donna Summer?_ to _GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FLAT_.

Mercifully, most people have gone and those that didn’t make it have passed out somewhere in the flat, which is fine, but God help them if there’s anyone in his bed. When Doniya returns to the living room alone, Zayn knows the kid has left as well, and irritation turns to flat out fury. He hears himself barking at Jas for losing his lighter, but can’t stop himself so stomps off to find another. It’s probably for the best that he sulks in his bedroom until his mood passes, but as he approaches the door to find that someone has tried – and failed – to peel the OBEY sticker off it, there’s no chance of that.

Zayn’s about to lose his shit completely when he throws the door open to find the kid in there and stops in the doorway.

‘Hey.’ The kid doesn’t flinch. ‘I was looking for the loo.’

Zayn makes a point of putting his hands on his hips and looking around the room. It doesn’t look that bad, most of his records are on the shelves his dad built him and he went to the laundrette yesterday so the carpet is clear, apart from whatever Doniya and her mates decided they weren’t going to wear. But then his mother didn’t put up with shit when he was living at home so he’s learned to tidy up after himself. Unlike Ant who seems to be conducting some sort of mould experiment with the mugs in his room and has scratched and/or burnt holes into every item of furniture they own. But still, Zayn hasn’t made the bed and when he sees the kid standing next to it, he suddenly has to fight the urge to walk over and straighten the sheets.

‘Do you see a toilet, mate?’ he says instead, tilting his head at him like he’s mad.

The kid ignores him and when he walks over to clothes rail in the corner Zayn watches him carefully, looking for some trace of what he’s been up to with Doniya, some pinkness in his cheeks, perhaps a smear of lipstick on his neck.

But there’s nothing.

‘Can I borrow this?’

Zayn blinks at him as he takes a Pink Floyd t-shirt off the rail, but before he can ask why, the kid peels off his Joy Division one and puts it on.

 

+++

 

His name’s Harry, so he tells Zayn between mouthfuls of chips on the walk back to his flat. Zayn hates living across the road from a kebab shop (especially at 4 a.m. when two blokes are kicking the shit out of each other over a girl who’s already halfway home in a cab), but after a party when only chips and pita will do, it’s a Godsend.

Harry follows because that’s what he does apparently, he steals your clothes and follows you to kebab shops and tells you not to put vinegar on your chips. Zayn’s about to tell him to fuck off when he grabs a handful, something he’d normally object to, but the kid’s earned them. After all, if he didn’t know how to say thank you in Turkish the guy wouldn’t have given him an extra scoop so he’s only eating what’s his.

‘What’s your surname?’ Zayn asks as they amble across the road. Somewhere he can hear someone singing It's a Long Way to Tipperary and it makes him smile.

‘Styles,’ Harry says and Zayn isn’t entirely sure he believes him because he’s also told him that he goes to Manchester Uni as well, which is clearly bullshit.

‘What you studying?’

‘English Lit,’ Harry says, breaking eye contact for the first time. He’s still wearing Doniya’s scarf around his head, something that garnered the attention of a group of girls in the kebab shop who insisted on having their picture taken with him.

‘Me too!’

‘Yeah?’

He gulps and Zayn smiles slowly. ‘What year?’

‘Second.’

‘Me too.’

‘I mean, I’m _about_ to go into my second year.’

‘Oh.’ Zayn nods, looking for his door keys when they get to his front door.

He mustn’t look convinced, because Harry adds, ‘When I’m done with finals.’

‘You’re not done?’

‘Not yet.’

‘How many more you got?’ Zayn asks, opening the door and stepping over the mess of pizza menus. He knows full well that finals are over – that’s the point of his party – but he can’t resist teasing him a little when Harry holds up a finger.

‘Freud?’ he says and Harry nods. ‘They always leave that one ‘til last.’

He looks relieved and smiles loosely. ‘Exactly!’

‘Professor Geller’s such a dork,’ Zayn tells him as Harry follows him up the stairs.

‘Right?’

‘But don’t eat his sandwich.’

When they get to the top of the stairs and Zayn stops outside the door to his flat, Harry stops too and closes his eyes. ‘There’s no Professor Geller is there?’

‘Of course there is.’

Harry inches an eye open. ‘Really?’

‘In Friends.’ Zayn tilts his head at him as if to say, _BUSTED_.

When Harry starts playing with his bottom lip, Zayn should tell him to go home, he knows, but then he realises that he’s tugging on his goatee and stops.

‘Okay.’ Harry sighs and tilts his head from side to side. ‘Maybe I’m not _strictly_ a first year.’ Zayn arches an eyebrow at him and he adds, ‘Yet.’

‘When will you be a first year?’

‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘ _Soon_ soon.’

The more he grins the younger he looks. Right now he looks about twelve.

‘How old are you, Harry?’

‘The same age as you.’

‘You’re twenty?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Okay,’ Harry concedes, ‘but I _feel_ twenty. That has to count for something.’

‘See how far that gets you in a pub.’

He licks his lips and smirks this time. ‘I do all right.’

‘Go home,’ Zayn tells him as soon as he’s caught his breath and he needs to because the urge to run his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip is distracting.

‘I’ve missed the last train.’

‘And that’s my problem how?’

The look Harry gives him lets Zayn know that it is now.

 

+++

 

He’s seventeen.

‘No,’ Zayn says when Harry tells him.

‘No what?’

 _Just no_ , Zayn thinks as he walks into the living room to find Harry’s mate (he still doesn’t know his name) passed out on the sofa. He’s about to laugh when he sees that someone has drawn a dick on his cheek, but when Harry laughs first, he hears himself muttering under his breath like a grumpy old man. ‘I suppose he’s staying, too.’

Zayn rolls his eyes then rolls them again when he sees that Jas has abandoned his post behind the decks in favour of a girl with white blonde hair and a tattoo of bee on her right shoulder. They’re the only ones in there, everyone else gone, Zayn realises as he heads back into the hall, apart from a few stragglers who’ve been collared by Doniya to assist with the cleaning up. As soon as she sees him, she takes the chips and pita out of his hand and nods at the living room door. ‘Put something decent on.’

He puts on Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the sound of his voice immediately making the muscles in Zayn’s shoulders soften. Harry tries to sing along as he walks around the flat, picking up empty cans and bottles and chucking them in the bin bag Doniya’s given him, which is much more endearing than it should be. She’s gone to bed, Zayn realises when he goes to his room to get Harry a blanket, smiling at the thought of Ant returning from his cousin’s wedding tomorrow to find his pillow bruised with her eyeliner.

‘The fuck are you doing?’ he asks when Harry follows him in.

‘Going to bed,’ he says as if it’s obvious, kicking off his _Converse_.

‘What?’

‘I’m knackered.’

If Zayn had thought about it – and he did, _of course_ he did – he stopped himself when Harry yawned, big and loud like a toddler in church, because he’d never felt so old.

‘We have two sofas,’ he reminds him, slinging a pillow at him.

 

+++

 

Zayn half expects to wake up and find Harry dozing next to him, but to his surprise, he’s done as he’s told for once and slept on the sofa. Or he’s slept _somewhere_ , Zayn thinks, his heart clenching like a fist when he hears him and Doniya laughing in the kitchen, which immediately kills the boner that he’d woken up to find himself stroking sleepily.

The laughter is louder in the hall, loud enough to make Zayn’s jaw clench this time as he kicks the bathroom door shut behind him. He takes a piss, cursing himself the whole time for being charmed by Harry who clearly just wanted some free chips and a way into his sister’s knickers, then brushes his teeth so hard his gums bleed.

He should avoid the kitchen, he knows, but paces towards it anyway. He holds his breath as he walks in, then lets go of it with a dizzy smile when he sees Doniya in her pyjamas. Her face is scrubbed clean and her hair tied back so she looks younger than him, and it turns his stomach to water because he knows then that nothing’s going on between them. Obviously she adores him, but not like _that_. Doniya doesn’t go to the corner shop without make up let alone have breakfast with someone she fancies.

‘Can you put some clothes on?’ she sneers when she sees him.

Zayn smiles sweetly and idly rubs his stomach with his hand. His appearance in the kitchen in just a pair of black briefs wasn’t _entirely_ accidental so when Harry’s cheeks go red and his gaze dips to the plate of toast in front of him on the kitchen table, Zayn’s smile widens as he reaches down to take a slice and pads back out again.

 

+++

 

 

+++

 

They meet at a pub near Manchester Piccadilly, one of those chains Zayn despises that sell _WKD_ in every colour and do two meals for a fiver. His local, the Crown and Sceptre (or the Hat and the Stick as he and Ant call it), might be a shithole, but at least it has some character. He’d much rather endure the scuffed floorboards and mismatched chairs that feel like they’re going to give way when you sit on them than this place which probably looks exactly the same as the _Wetherspoons_ in Leeds and Cardiff and Dublin. Plus it’s huge, a veritable airport hanger that makes him yearn for the Hat and the Stick with its empty _Hendrick's Gin_ bottles they reuse as soap dispensers in the toilets and its jukebox that has every Joni Mitchell album but no Coldplay. But when he eventually finds Harry tucked into a corner, idly fussing over his mess of curls as he reads the menu, there’s a backpack at his feet so Zayn knows they won’t be there long.

He grins, his little face lighting up like the Blackpool illuminations when he looks up to see Zayn standing there in a leather jacket and a Bondi Ink tank that he definitely, absolutely did not change into after Harry texted him.

‘You came,’ he says, his dimples so deep Zayn could stick a finger in them.

As soon as he considers it, he has to sit down because God help him, this kid is adorable – sleepy puppy falling off a sofa adorable – and Zayn is fucking _done for_ because despite his efforts to refer to him as a kid and the voice in his head that’s saying, _He’s seventeen_ over and over, his heart bounces like a rubber ball against his ribs.

 _Fuck my life_ , he thinks as he sinks into the leather chair opposite Harry, and he’s glad there’s a table between them because they’re going to shag, aren’t they? Zayn’s been there less than a minute and he’s already looking around for the disabled toilet.

But instead he says, ‘I was promised chips.’

‘You can have whatever you like,’ Harry says with a smirk that somehow manages to be utterly obscene yet not sleazy in the slightest, which Zayn didn’t think possible. But then that’s Harry, he’s learning, he walks that line well, the one between knowing too much and not having a clue and Zayn’ll be fucked if it isn’t what’s had him thinking about him all day. What’s got him to this shitty _Wetherspoons_ at eight o’clock on a Sunday night when he’s hungover and bone tired after only four hours sleep.

But then Harry’s smirk softens into a smile and suddenly Zayn isn’t tired at all. He’s never felt more awake, in fact, his blood hot and his heart pumping. And that’s down to Harry, he knows, to just being next to him, because he has this energy, Zayn can feel it. He’s sure that if he touched him now, he would be humming because Harry is nothing but energy, energy and light. Not just behind his eyes, that slight glint that makes it difficult to look away sometimes, but under his skin. It’s as if Zayn can see the youth burning through his clothes, and he just wants a little bit of it.

Just a bit.

‘Who’s Ant?’ Harry asks and Zayn stops shrugging off his jacket.

‘Ant?’

‘Yeah, Ant.’

‘How do you know about Ant?’

‘Doniya said that you’ve been living together for a year.’

Harry suddenly looks very serious and Zayn’s stomach turns to water just like it did that morning when he walked into the kitchen to find his sister in her pyjamas. He shouldn’t, he knows, but it’s Zayn’s turn to smirk. ‘Yeah we have.’

‘So you’re living together?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just the two of you?’

Harry presses his lips together and it’s cruel, Zayn knows, but so is the fact that he’s taking off his leather jacket to reveal his sleeve of tattoos which has Harry’s gaze dipping away from him for the first time since he got there.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says and Harry looks up at him again.

‘Are you together?’

Zayn can’t help but smile then because it’s just what he wants: to not fuck around. He hates dating, hates the stupid games that you’re supposed to play when you like someone. Don’t reply to texts straight away. Don’t make a date for a Saturday night after Wednesday. Don’t say I love you first. Zayn prefers a more direct approach, especially as it usually results in him getting his dick sucked.

‘No,’ he says but Harry doesn’t look convinced.

‘Have you ever been together?’

Zayn shakes his head.

‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Zayn shakes his head again and Harry smiles. ‘Good,’ he says, fishing a £20 note out of the pocket of his jeans. ‘Time to get me liquored up.’

 

+++

 

Zayn does nothing of the sort and even makes a point of getting him an apple juice, something he comes to regret when Harry drinks most of his beer. He gets another and Harry drinks most of that too while he tells Zayn about the village where he lives (which sounds like something from Downton Abbey compared to where he’s from in Bradford) and his band, White Eskimo, which Harry insists isn’t racist.

Of course he’s in a band, Zayn thinks as he waits at the bar, of course he is. They’re going to make it, too, Harry is sure, and Zayn can’t believe it’s only been three years since he used to think like that. Since he used to think that he could be anything he wanted to be. He doesn’t know when he stopped. Probably around the time Jas, despite months of trying after he graduated, had to take a job in a call centre. A 2:1 in Economics and he’s cold calling people to ask about PPI. It was supposed to be a stopgap, then it was going to finance his album, but Zayn can’t remember the last time he mentioned it.

They call last orders as he’s walking back to Harry and he doesn’t know what happened to the last three hours. Fab Cafe closes at 12.30pm on a Sunday, he thinks when Harry ignores his apple juice and reaches for Zayn’s beer. He takes a gulp and when he puts the pint glass on the table between them, his mouth is so red that Zayn’s about to suggest they head on there when he remembers that Harry needs to get home.

‘When’s your train?’ He nods at his backpack and Harry bites down on a smile.

‘The last one left at 9.04pm.’

 

+++

 

They end up at Zayn’s flat, of course. (He doesn’t know when in the last 24-hours that became a foregone conclusion, but there you go.) Ant is surprisingly cool about it. They’ve brought pizza, which helps, still Ant doesn’t seem fazed, offering to make Harry tea and complimenting his paper plane necklace. Or least Zayn doesn’t think he’s fazed, but when Harry goes to the toilet, Ant sighs and shakes his head.

Zayn shakes his head back. ‘I know.’

‘How old is he? Fifteen?’

‘ _Seventeen_.’ It surprises him how defensive he sounds.

It doesn’t go unnoticed as Ant smiles and holds up two fingers. ‘Two words, Zed.’

‘Jailbait is one word, actually.’

 

+++

 

 

+++

 

It is, of course. Harry doesn’t wait to be invited in and when Zayn hears the door open he groans. ‘Take a jumper and fuck off,’ he mutters into his pillow, raising his arm to wave in the vague direction of his clothing rail, but Harry tries to get into the bed.

‘Budge up,’ he says when Zayn won’t let him.

‘Does anyone know where you are?’ Zayn growls, pulling the sheet up to cover his Batman briefs that again, he definitely, absolutely did not change into after Harry texted him. ‘Because if they don’t, they’ll never find your body, you know?’

Harry is undeterred by the threat and manages to get a leg and most of his arse onto the bed which is enough to give him the momentum to shove Zayn out of the way.

‘Your fucking feet!’

‘I told you I was cold.’

Zayn hisses something incomprehensible and gives him one of his pillows.

‘Thanks.’

Even in the dark Zayn can hear him smiling. ‘Go to fucking sleep.’

‘I just need to tell you something first.’

‘They will never find your body,’ Zayn reminds him as he rolls away from him and folds the pillow he has left in half.

‘It’s important.’ When he ignores him and tries to go back to sleep, Harry nudges him in the back with his knee. ‘Please, Zayn. I won’t be able to sleep until I tell you.’

He lifts his head off the pillow. ‘What did you break?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘What, then?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Harry hesitates. ‘Forget it.’

‘So you woke me up for nothing?’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

Zayn has ended friendships for less, but rolls onto his back again. ‘What, Harry?’

‘It’s alright.’

‘Bro, just tell me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s stupid.’

Zayn thinks of their conversation about the illuminati. ‘That’s never stopped you before.’ Harry laughs, loud and fake, and Zayn nudges him this time. ‘Spill it, Styles.’

‘What if I whisper it?’ Harry suggests, rolling onto his side to face him.

The room is dark but living on a main road opposite a kebab shop and a 24-hour _Tesco Metro_ , it’s never _that_ dark, so he can see the shape of Harry, his dark cloud of curls and the long line of his neck. He’s propping himself up on one elbow so the light hits his bare shoulder, making his skin looks almost bluish. Zayn’s mouth goes dry as he thinks about leaning over and licking it, maybe even biting it then finding his collarbones with his mouth and biting them, too, but when he catches his breath again, he huffs.

‘Whisper it? How old are you, Harry?’

As if to prove the point, he grabs his wrist. ‘Here. I’ll write it on your hand.’

‘You’re worse than Saafa.’

He is. That’s what she does when she tells Waliyha secrets, she writes them in Waliyha’s hand. He’s about to tell Harry not to be so childish but when he draws a letter on his palm with the tip of his finger, the tickle of it is enough to make Zayn shiver.

It doesn’t feel childish at all.

‘What is that?’ He breathes. ‘R?’

He nods and draws another. That tickles too and fucking hell, is this really giving him a boner? Harry’s too close, as always, which isn’t helping, especially when Zayn feels the heat burning off him and remembers that he isn’t wearing anything, either.

‘U. Are you?’ he says but Zayn’s voice shakes a little as he wonders if Harry is wearing underwear. It would be so easy to reach his other hand out and find out.

Harry nods and when he leans closer, so close that Zayn feels his breath on his cheek, it makes his head spin so suddenly he has to concentrate on what he writes next.

‘Ever. Are you ever?’

Harry nods.

‘Going. Are you ever going?’

Harry nods.

‘S?’ Harry shakes his head this time and writes it again. ‘2?’

Harry nods.

Zayn sucks in another breath then licks his lips. ‘Are you ever going to?’

Harry writes the next word more carefully, making Zayn say each letter out loud. He hears himself spell out _Kiss_ then pulls his hand away.

‘Go to sleep, Harry.’

 

+++

 

Zayn’s woken the next morning by the sound of the phone.

‘Don’t answer it,’ he mumbles into his pillow when Harry stirs.

Ant says the same thing, yelling, ‘Don’t answer it!’ from the bathroom.

‘Why? Who is it?’ Harry asks, rolling onto his back with a yawn.

‘Who knows? But no one good ever calls the house phone.’

‘What if it’s your mum?’

‘She calls my mobile.’

‘My Nan always calls us on the house phone.’

‘Everyone I know calls my mobile.’

‘So why even have a house phone?’

‘So we know not to answer it.’

‘Why?’

Zayn presses his face into the pillow and groans. It’s not even 8 a.m.. He doesn’t do conversations before 8 a.m. without at least two cups of tea.

‘I’m just saying: why pay for a house phone if you don’t use it?’

Zayn rolls onto his back too and looks up at the growing crack in the ceiling. ‘’Cos we _have_ to give our number out sometimes and we’d rather not use our mobiles.’

‘To who?’

‘The bank.’

‘Is that who’s calling?’

Zayn nods and it turns into a yawn. ‘Ant’s just gone over his overdraft limit.’

Harry’s quiet for a moment and Zayn wonders if he’s ever had to worry about stuff like that, if he’s ever had to live on _Pot Noodles_ for a week to pay the gas bill.

Probably not.

‘So have I, actually,’ Zayn says, closing his eyes as he remembers the pack of fags he bought yesterday knowing full well that there wasn’t enough money in his account.

‘What are you going to do?’ Zayn can’t see him but he knows that he’s frowning.

‘Sell a kidney, probably.’

‘Why don’t you get a job?’

Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘I have four.’ He counts each one off on his fingers. ‘I work at Piccadilly on a Saturday and during the week I tutor, DJ and work in the student union. I used to work at the Hat and Stick as well but they just let me go, which is why I’m broke.’

‘Jesus,’ Harry breathes. ‘Thank God for the summer holidays, yeah?’

‘Not at all,’ Zayn chuckles bitterly. ‘I’ve got no tutoring work unless any of my students have to do resits, which would make me a pretty shit tutor, wouldn’t it? Plus the union’s shut for the summer so I’m fucking fucked.’

‘What? But isn’t uni done? Aren’t you going home?’

‘I wish. This isn’t halls. We don’t rent by the term. Ant and I signed a 12-month contract so we still need to pay the rent until September whether we’re here or not.’

‘Fuck.’

‘It’s alright,’ Zayn says, stopping to rub his face with his hands. ‘Mal at Piccadilly will be gone for most of the summer doing the festivals so I’ll pick up his hours.’

‘So you’ll be working full-time?’

‘Yeah. Six days a week plus three nights DJing so I should be sorted.’

‘What?’ Harry practically spits. ‘For the _whole_ summer?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s bollocks!’

Zayn laughs because it kind of is.

‘Shit. And then in September you go back to working forty jobs and going to uni?’ Zayn nods. ‘When do you have time to study?’

‘I don’t. Last month I skipped a tutorial to pick up an extra shift at the union.’

‘What about student loans?’

‘They cover my fees and some of my books, but not my rent and bills and stuff.’

Harry goes quiet again. When Zayn finally turns his head to look at him, he’s drumming his fingers on his stomach and looking up at the ceiling.

‘Is it worth it?’ he says.

The phone starts ringing again.

 

+++

 

 

_June_

 

 

‘What do you even have in common with a seventeen-year old?’ Ant asks one evening as they’re sitting in the Hat and Stick. It’s almost nine o’clock and apart from Sid sitting at the bar, they’re the only ones in there, which explains why they had to let Zayn go.

Harry asked him once, if it was weird going back there after they got rid of him ( _made him redundant_ , Zayn prefers, which is technically true, even if they could only afford to give him £50 severance) but it isn’t at all. Maybe if they sacked him, but Zayn gets it. Most nights he just chatted to the locals and polished the bottles on the shelf behind the bar because he felt bad that he had nothing to do. Plus, he’d seen the till, he knew Adam and Karen had no money and with a baby on the way, well…

So there’s no hard feelings, which is good because it’s his favourite pub in Manchester, because it’s so quiet, ironically. That and the fact that it isn’t like any of the other pubs. There are no Man United shirts on the wall and they don’t play Oasis. (The Smiths, maybe, and New Order, but Adam’s barred people for asking why there isn’t any Oasis on the jukebox.) It’s just somewhere chill that plays decent music and still sells stuff like pork scratchings (not that Zayn would ever) where you can have a quiet pint.

Or at least it _should be_ , but Ant seems to have other plans tonight.

‘Seriously, Zed. He’s _seventeen_.’

‘What do you want me to say, Ant?’ Zayn shrugs because what can he say?

‘I’m not having a go, I’m genuinely curious. Isn’t he still at school?’

‘Sixth form.’

‘Does he wear a uniform?’

Zayn looks away, taking a long gulp of beer as he thinks about the selfie Harry sent him last week, his school tie around his head and the top button of his white shirt undone. In a pub like the Hat and Stick you’re lucky to get ice in your G&T let alone air conditioning. It isn’t too bad if the back door is open but on a sticky night like that it’s hot enough in the bar as it is so he doesn’t need Ant asking about Harry’s school uniform. Still, if his cheeks look as hot as they feel, hopefully Ant will put it down to that and not that he’s thinking about knotting Harry’s tie around his wrists instead, which he isn’t.

 _He isn’t_.

‘What do you and Harry even talk about?’

Zayn shrugs again. ‘Stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘The same stuff we do.’

‘What the washing up and who’s turn it is to buy bog roll?’

Zayn narrows his gaze as if to say, _Very funny_.

‘Seriously, Zed. Why _this guy_?’

‘As opposed to who?’

‘Yaf,’ Ant says and Zayn groans because he knew it was coming. ‘ _What_?’

‘You need to let the Yaf thing go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t like fix ups. They’re always a disaster.’

‘It’s me, Zed.’ Ant presses a hand to his chest. ‘I know you better than anyone.’

‘True.’ Zayn concedes with a nod, taking another sip of beer. The sudden turn the conversation has taken makes him want to knock the whole thing back in one but he doesn’t have enough money for another so he’s trying to make it last.

‘Yaf is perfect for you.’ Ant begins counting on his fingers. ‘He’s bright, he’s funny and he loves music. Plus, he’s as fit as fuck.’

‘You shag him then.’

‘I would.’ Ant snatches his pint off the table and points it at him. ‘He could turn me if he tried but he likes you for some reason.’

Zayn pokes his tongue out at him and Ant shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying: you and Yaf would be perfect together yet you’re running around with this kid.’

‘He’s not a kid.’

‘He’s still at school!’

‘Sixth form!’

‘Can you hear yourself, Zed?’ Ant puts his glass down and stares at him across the table. ‘Can you hear the words that are coming out of your mouth right now?’

Zayn can’t wait any longer and finishes his beer.

‘You have _nothing_ in common.’ Ant pushes when he does.

‘We do.’

‘Like what? His A-Levels? Getting IDed at 42s?’

Zayn ignores him. ‘A lot, actually.’ He says petulantly, putting his glass down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘We’re into the same music, the same films.’

‘No you’re not.’ Ant shakes his head. ‘He wears Joy Division t-shirts and skinny jeans. He’s the sort of kid we laugh at when he Instagrams the window at Piccadilly.’

‘I love Joy Division.’

‘Zayn, come on.’

‘What? What’s the big deal?’

‘He’s _seventeen_.’

‘It’s only three years. You’re making out like it’s twenty or something.’

‘I have pants older than him.’

‘We’re not doing anything, though.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘We’re _just friends_ , Ant.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘We haven’t even kissed.’

‘But you want to, right?’ When he hesitates, Ant points at him. ‘You hesitated!’

‘Fine! I want to kiss him! Is that so bad? He’s only three years younger than me.’

When Zayn pouts and sits back in his chair with his arms crossed, Ant nods in that pious way he does when he’s psychoanalysing him, as if to say, _Oh I see_.

‘Bargaining,’ he says and Zayn rolls his eyes.

‘The fuck are you on about now?’

‘You were in stage one – denial – and now you’ve reached bargaining.’

Zayn laughs, but Ant’s right because he hadn’t even noticed when, _He’s seventeen_ turned into _It’s only three years_. Not that he has any intention of telling him that.

‘What are you two arguing about?’ Karen says, appearing at their table with another two pints. She shakes her head when Ant puts his hand in his pocket.

‘How Zayn is in love with Harry.’

‘I’m not in love with him!’ Zayn uncrosses his arms and glares at him.

Karen puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘Dogs and blind people know that you’re in love with him, babe.’

Ant holds his hand out to her as if to say, _See?_ and Zayn sags.

‘I’m not.’

‘It’s okay.’ She squeezes his shoulder.

‘No it’s not, Karen! He’s _seventeen_!’

If Ant says that once more, Zayn’s going to punch him.

‘Does he make you happy, babe?’ she asks softly and when Zayn nods, she smiles and squeezes his shoulder again. ‘That’s all that matters, then.’

Zayn holds his hand out to her as if to say, _See?_

Ant shakes his head. ‘You know what makes me happy? Torturing my cat with a laser pen but that doesn’t make it a good fucking idea.’

‘Hush, you!’ Karen pokes him and Ant holds his hands up.

‘I’m just saying: careful you don’t get your face scratched off, bro.’

‘Thanks, bro.’

‘Could she be any more pregnant?’ he asks, lowering his voice as Karen walks back towards the bar with one hand on her belly. ‘When’s she due?’

‘August.’

‘Nah. She ain’t gonna make it another two months. She’s ready to burst.’

‘What a lovely image, Ant.’

‘Sorry. Pregnant women make me nervous.’

‘Aren’t you training to be a doctor?’

‘A psychotherapist. There’s a difference.’

‘And don’t I know it,’ Zayn sighs, reaching for his fresh pint.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I know what you’re doing.’ Zayn gestures at the space between them with his glass. ‘You’re psychoanalysing me again.’

Ant holds his hands out as if to say, _What?_ ‘I’m just saying-’

‘He’s seventeen,’ Zayn says before he can.

‘Is he even gay?’ When Zayn doesn’t answer, Ant nods piously again. ‘You haven’t talked about it, have you?’

‘We-’

Ant doesn’t let him finish, which is actually a relief because Zayn has no idea what to say. ‘You haven’t talked about it,’ he jabs the table with his finger, ‘’cos you’re scared that he’s just another of those guys who are attracted to you like moths to a-’

‘Flamer?’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’ He scowls fiercely. ‘More like seagulls following a trash barge.’

‘Cheers, Ant.’

‘Hey, I’m just saying: this is your MO, Zed. You could be with someone like Yaf-’

‘Let it go.’

Ant carries on, raising his voice over him. ‘Having a fulfilling relationship, but _no_. You want the teenager who’ll run back to his mum as soon as you put it in him.’

‘Stop calling him a teenager.’

Ant raises an eyebrow when he sees Zayn’s jaw clench. ‘But he is, isn’t he?’

‘You’re making me sound like a fucking paedo or something.’

‘Okay,’ Ant concedes, holding his hands up. ‘Sorry. I’m just saying: be careful.’

‘I am being careful.’

‘Sleeping in the same bed.’ Ant holds his thumbs up. ‘So careful.’

‘All we do is sleep.’

‘That’s the problem.’

Zayn looks at him like he’s mad. ‘What are you on about?’

‘It’s been a month, Zed.’

‘So?’

‘Why haven’t you fucked yet?’

‘Because we’re friends.’

‘Will you stop saying that. You’re not fucking friends.’

‘We are!’

‘And you share a bed with all of your friends?’

‘What do you want me to say, Ant?’

‘Where’s it going?’

Zayn throws his head back and groans. ‘Why does it have to go somewhere?’

‘Because what’s the point?’

‘Look. I dunno.’ Zayn sighs and holds his arm out to the window they’re sitting next to. It’s dark now, the lights from the Korean shop across the road so bright that the baskets of cucumbers and spring onions look neon green. ‘All I know is: it’s summer and we’re missing it. You’re working at _Starbucks_ , serving frappuccinos to kids with henna tattoos and sunburn, while I’m stuck in Piccadilly so we can make rent.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘We’re only twenty. _It’s June_. We’re supposed to be having fun not working all day. We should be sleeping on a beach in Thailand or hitchhiking to Glastonbury.’

He rolls his eyes at Zayn as if to say, _Grow up_.

‘What are we doing all of this for, then, Ant?’

‘What?’

‘Going to uni.’ Ant ignores him, taking a swig of beer, but Zayn can’t let it go. ‘To get decent jobs, right?’ He waits for him to agree, but he doesn’t. ‘Ant, we’re working our arses off to set ourselves up for a lifetime of working our arses off. I mean.’ Zayn has to stop himself slamming his fist on the table. ‘I’ve been working since I was fourteen.’

‘And shagging a seventeen-year old is your reward?’

It’s Zayn’s turn to ignore him. ‘I know Harry’s only seventeen, but it’s nice to just _hang out_. Remember that? Sitting around talking about books and films? When all we had to worry about was whether LCD Soundsystem are going to get back together.’

‘They will.’ Ant arches an eyebrow at him. ‘We can’t lose hope.’

‘We’re about to go into our final year and I don’t know if I can afford it.’ Zayn shrugs. ‘How the fuck am going to work four jobs next year and pass my degree?’

Ant doesn’t say anything, just exhales through his nose and crosses his arms.

‘And I can’t drop out now because the last two years will have been for nothing.’

‘We can get jobs,’ Ant says weakly. ‘Save up.’

‘What? Like Jas? He has a fucking degree and he’s working in a call centre. What the fuck sort of job are we going to get without one?’

Ant shrugs. ‘What then?’

‘I have no idea, that’s the point. If I drop out I won’t come back and if I keep going I’ll probably fail because I don’t have enough time to study so what’s the point?’

‘Jesus,’ Ant hisses. ‘How the fuck did we get here? I just wanted a quiet pint and now I’m questioning my whole fucking life.’

‘You started it with this _Where’s it going?_ bollocks.’

Ant huffs and shakes his head as if it’s still Zayn’s fault.

‘Look. This is our last summer. Shit’s about to get real and I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about where it’s going with Harry or if he’s the one or if we’re going to make it through the summer. I don’t want to think about _anything_ until I have to. And okay,’ Zayn lifts a shoulder then lets it drop again. ‘Maybe that’s all it is, a summer romance. What’s wrong with that? That’s what the summer’s for.’

Ant’s quiet for a moment, then holds up his glass. ‘Here’s to our last summer.’

 

+++

 

 

 

_July_

 

 

Of course as soon as Zayn gives himself permission to shag Harry, he fucks off to Cyprus for two weeks with his family, which is probably for the best but is still deeply annoying. Harry tortures him, sending a string of selfies that, Zayn assumes, are supposed to make him jealous of Harry’s view from the sun lounger and his building tan, but results in Zayn almost wanking himself blind thinking about Harry’s stupid puffy nipples.

Other than the inappropriate wank material, which he prays Ant never finds out about, (in Zayn’s defence, is wank material ever appropriate?) without Harry around, things begin to go back to normal. Zayn gets into a routine, working at Piccadilly Records during the day and DJing at night, and yeah, sleeping on a beach in Thailand would be pretty fucking sweet, but at least he gets to listen to music all day.

It would be worse. He could be stacking shelves in _Asda_ or standing outside the Trafford Centre holding a _GOLF SALE_ sign. Plus, he’s just started DJing at a club on Princess Street. They can’t pay him, but he gets free drinks and a cab home, which is more than he gets from some of his gigs. So he and Ant soon forget that they’re supposed to be embracing their last summer before they go back to uni, too distracted by the quiet ebb and low of life, of getting up, going to work and puffing until they fall asleep again. Of beer in the Hat and Stick and chips and pita on the walk home.

Maybe that is embracing it.

Maybe life doesn’t always have to be about riding your heart like it’s stolen.

So one evening, while Zayn’s having a pint at the Hat and Stick and Ant walks in with Yaf, he knows exactly what Ant’s doing, but the kick of irritation he’d usually feel isn’t there. He even manages a smile, even when Ant makes an excuse ten minutes later about needing to get back to the flat because he’s left the bathroom window open.

He doesn’t come back of course and while Zayn and Yaf are both painfully aware that they’ve been set up, Zayn can’t be mad because Ant’s right – the fucking fucker – Yaf is absolutely his type. He’s bright, funny and loves music. Plus, he really is as fit as fuck and exactly what Zayn goes for: tall and broad with a smile that could rival Harry’s.

As soon as Zayn makes the comparison, he curses himself because Ant’s right about that, too. Why the fuck is he thinking about Harry when he’s sitting in a pub with a bloke who knows who Ian McEwan is, laughs at his jokes and spent his gap year teaching English in Ghana. Plus, he’s fit as fuck. Has Zayn mentioned that? Because he is. Stupidly, confusingly, beguilingly beautiful. His parents are from Ghana so he has clear, dark skin and eyes the colour of expensive Scotch, but he was born in Edinburgh, so has a soft Scottish brogue that makes Zayn want to ask him to read things out. Everything. Anything. The menu, the phone book, the graffiti on the bathroom wall.

He’d make all of it sound like poetry and it’s fucking distracting.

So when their knees touch under the table, Zayn can’t help but think of the way his heart jumps up in his chest like a startled cat when he and Harry touch. He smiles to himself and when he thinks of him in Cyprus, drinking cocktails and darting around the island on the _Vespa_ he’s rented, it doesn’t just feel like they have most of Europe between them, but the whole world. Zayn, who doesn’t even have a passport who’ll be lucky to get a weekend in Blackpool this summer, almost laughs then, when he asks himself why he’s taking this thing with Harry so seriously. It’s nothing. He’s pretty sure Harry isn’t in a bar somewhere in Cyprus, wondering where things are going with Zayn, and that’s cool. Perhaps he’s just a guy who crashes his parties sometimes and shows up at 42s to tell Zayn to play an Arctic Monkeys song and he’ll never be any more than that.

 _This_ is what he needs, Zayn thinks as he looks at Yaf. Someone who can buy his own drinks and doesn’t tell the nacho cheese joke every time he eats _Doritos_. Someone who has a plan, who knows where he’ll be in five years and doesn’t ignore the house phone when it rings. So he doesn’t move his leg and when Yaf smiles, Zayn smiles back because what the hell? He dreads to think what Harry’s up to in Cyprus; if his texts are anything to go by, Harry’s having the time of his life. So why is Zayn overlooking Yaf – smart, funny, beautiful Yaf – for someone who isn’t even thinking about him?

That’s when Harry walks in, of course, and as soon as Zayn sees him, his heart jumps up in his chest like a startled cat. He looks so good – so _alive_ , his hair lighter and his eyes brighter, a firefly in the dim pub – that Zayn’s suddenly unsure how he’s made it through the last two weeks without him and has to stop himself running over to him.

Not that Harry even notices him as he barrels into the pub, making as much noise as possible. There’s a cheer from the regulars when he says, ‘Hiiiiii!’ (Even from Sid who pretty much hates everyone, apart from Bobby Charlton.) Zayn’s legs aren’t as steady as he stands up and smiles. Harry sees him then, heading straight for him, for his pint, actually, which he takes a huge gulp of before Zayn can prise it off him.

‘You alright?’ Harry asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a kid who’s just finished a glass of milk, then throws his arms around him.

Zayn chuckles as he gets a mouthful of his hair which he definitely, absolutely does not smell and definitely, absolutely does not smell like coconut.

‘I thought you were back tomorrow?’ he says, resisting the urge to reach for him again when Harry steps back and looks at him.

‘Got my dates wrong, didn’t I?’ He rolls his eyes then turns to Yaf, who stands up and holds out his hand. Harry shakes it with a smile. ‘Hey, I’m Harry.’

‘Yafeu.’

Before Zayn can explain who he is, Harry reaches for his pint and when he takes another swig, Adam shouts, ‘Oi!’ from behind the bar. Harry turns and grins at him – all teeth and dimples, like he’s posing for a school photo – and says, ‘It’s alright as long as I don’t buy it,’ (always his excuse for poncing drinks) ‘and I’m accompanied by an adult.’

Adam looks at Zayn and scoffs. ‘Yeah right.’

‘Hey!’ Zayn frowns.

Adam holds up one finger and reaches under the bar for a pint glass. Harry gallops over, almost tripping on his laces as he does, and Zayn laughs.

 

+++

 

+++

 

Despite chatting to Yaf for most of the evening (including a lengthy conversation about Breaking Bad that was mostly yelling about how good it is) Zayn suddenly can’t think of a thing to say. If Yaf has noticed, he doesn’t say anything and persists with another anecdote, this one about Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie that is actually pretty interesting so Zayn has no idea why his gaze keeps straying to where Harry is sitting at the bar. He’s earning himself a pie and chips by writing the specials on the board, something Adam gets him to do because he loves his puns. _Becoming a vegetarian is a missed steak_ and _Try Karen’s rice pudding. It’s divine. There’s no other way of pudding it!_

Zayn really wishes Adam wouldn’t encourage him.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,’ Yaf says and Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. ‘There’s a Malaysian place in the Northern Quarter I’ve been dying to try.’

Zayn opens his mouth but nothing comes out and if he was unsure how he felt about Yaf, he’s sure then as the thought of being alone with him has his brain greasily grabbing at every excuse he can think of. But before he can think of one, Adam bursts out the toilet door into the bar. He’s been fixing a blockage so when he shouts, ‘Get out!’ Zayn balks, thinking the toilet’s about to explode. But he adds, ‘Karen’s in labour!’

There’s a cheer (not from Sid, of course) and Zayn runs over. ‘Congratulations!’ He hugs him but Adam is shaking and when he steps back to look at him, Zayn’s sure he’s about to faint. ‘Here,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Give me the keys. I’ll lock up.’

‘What?’ Harry says, running in with the empty glasses he’s collected from the beer garden. (Another thing he does to earn himself a pint or, if Adam’s feeling generous, a _Jack_ and _Coke_.) Beer garden is charitable. It’s actually a bench out back, next to the barrels. It’s another reason Zayn likes the Hat and Stick so much, because people want to sit outside in the summer so head for the pubs with outside barbeques. No one wants to sit out there in July, on a picnic bench that’s one more arse away from falling to pieces.

‘Karen’s in labour,’ Zayn tells him.

Harry puts the glasses on the bar and runs over. ‘Holy shit!’ He launches himself at Adam, giving him one of his orang-utan hugs that almost knocks him off his feet.

‘Ta,’ Adam says, spitting Harry’s hair out of his mouth.

Zayn holds up the keys. ‘I said I’d lock up so Adam can get to the hospital.’

‘Yeah. Don’t worry, man. We’ve got things covered here. Go! Be a dad!’

Harry hugs him again and Adam looks like he’s about to vomit.

‘Don’t forget to lock the back door,’ he tells Zayn when Harry finally lets go. ‘And don’t use the toilet in the men’s. And make sure the fryer’s off.’

‘Yeah. Yeah,’ Zayn says, following him to the door and almost pushing him out of it. ‘I worked here for six months, remember? Don’t worry. Give Karen my love.’

When he goes and Zayn turns back towards the bar, Harry and Yaf are standing next to each other and he forgets how to speak again so Yaf does.

‘Do you want me to wait?’

Zayn buys himself a moment as he says goodbye to Sid who grunts and shuffles out the door with a  copy of the _Racing Post_ under his arm.

Then they’re alone.

Harry looks at Yaf then at Zayn and Zayn almost legs it out the door after Sid.

‘No.’ He hopes it doesn’t sound as harsh as he thinks it does. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be here a while.’ He nods at the bar but realises a second too late that he’s nodding at Harry.

‘Okay,’ Yaf says, his smile not as smooth as he starts walking towards him. Zayn’s stomach flips about eighty-two times in the few steps it takes for Yaf to get to him, and when he stops in front of him by the door, if he was sure that his legs wouldn’t betray him, he would leg it. ‘Let me know if you read Purple Hibiscus, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says, suddenly breathless as Yaf leans in. He’s right to be anxious because Yaf presses a kiss to his cheek and the shock of it makes him step backwards.

‘Sorry!’ Yaf says as Zayn knocks a chair over, the sound of it hitting the floor too loud in the empty bar. ‘I didn’t mean to-’

‘It’s okay,’ Zayn says, and if Yaf was in any doubt that he wasn’t interested, he is when Zayn opens the door and smiles clumsily. ‘See ya.’

Yaf smiles sadly and takes the hint.

 

+++

 

 

+++

 

Harry misses the whole exchange because he’s behind the bar scoffing a bag of pork scratchings like he hasn’t eaten for ten years, not ten minutes.

‘I’ve always wanted to try _Advocaat_ ,’ he says when he turns away from the shelf of bottles to see Zayn walking towards him. ‘My Nan loves it.’

‘It’s disgusting,’ Zayn tells him over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen to check that the fryer is off and the back door is locked. But of course when he comes back out into the bar, Harry has taken the yellow bottle off the shelf and is frowning at it.

‘It looks like it tastes of custard.’

‘It doesn’t.’ Zayn opens the till and takes out the float.

‘What does it taste of?’

‘Evil,’ Zayn insists, finding the plastic moneybags behind the bar and walking around to sit on one of the stools. ‘Pure evil.’

Harry still opens the bottle and sniffs it.

‘All this booze and you want to try fucking _Advocaat_ ,’ Zayn says under his breath, shaking his head as he scoops the £1 coins out with his hand. Harry takes advantage of his momentary distraction as Zayn starts counting them, pouring some of the _Advocaat_ into a glass. It’s even more foul without ice, but Zayn has no intention of telling him that, the corners of his mouth twitching as Harry swallows a mouthful.

He coughs then gags so desperately Zayn jumps back off the stool, sure that Harry’s about to projectile vomit across the bar at him.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

‘It’s disgusting!’ Harry whimpers when he’s caught his breath.

‘Told you.’

‘Disgusting!’

Zayn waits and when he’s sure that he’s not going to puke in his face, he hops on the stool again. He thinks he’s learnt his lesson, but Harry, ever the teenager, finishes it.

‘ _You’re_ disgusting!’ Zayn sneers.

‘Can’t waste it,’ he says, wiping his mouth with his fingers. ‘It’s still booze.’

Zayn would be appalled if his bottom lip weren’t such an obscene shade of pink.

 

+++

 

Zayn does the float while Harry stacks the dishwasher. He’s exorcising the taste of evil from his mouth with a _Jack_ and _Coke_ and when Zayn catches himself thinking that he’s glad because he’s not kissing him if he tastes of _Advocaat_ , Ant texts him like he knows.

 

 

Zayn curses him under his breath but as he’s putting his phone back on the bar, Ant texts him again.

 

 

‘Did you miss me?’ Harry asks as he’s texting Ant back, telling him to fuck off.

Zayn doesn’t look up when he leans across the bar, but he can picture his face, all drowsy eyelashes and big pupils, his bottom lip wet as he waits for him to say, _Of course_.

So he doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

‘You mean did I miss having two pillows again?’

Ant texts back to say, _Thought you were fucking Harry?_ and Zayn guffaws. An utterly unattractive sound, somewhere between a laugh and a snort.

‘I think I’m gonna go,’ Harry says when he does.

‘Okay.’ Zayn looks up from his phone to find him walking around the bar. ‘I’ve still got some stuff to do here so I’ll see you back at the flat. Won’t be long.’

‘No. I mean _go_ go,’ Harry says sharply, bending down to pick up his backpack.

‘Go where?’

‘Home.’

‘Home? It’s nearly midnight. The trains have stopped running.’

‘I don’t care. I’d rather sleep at Manchester Piccadilly than go back to your flat.’

There’s a moment of silence as they look at each other across the pub. Zayn’s still sitting at the bar, the takings divided neatly into money bags in front of him, but Harry’s on the other side now, his hand on the door and his backpack on his shoulder.

Zayn blinks at him. ‘Did I miss something?’

‘No. It’s _me_ who’s missed something.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean, Zayn.’

‘I don’t.’

He really doesn’t. A minute ago Harry was singing Jumpin’ Jack Flash to himself as he stacked the dishwasher and now he’s leaving.

‘Look.’ Harry lets go of the door handle. ‘I’m trying to be all cool and _whatever_ ,’ he waves his hands around, ‘and not seventeen about this but I’m fucking dying here.’

Zayn’s breath catches in his throat, the way it did earlier when Yaf suggested they get something to eat, and his brain starts whirring again. But instead of trying to think of a reason to get rid of Harry, he’s trying to think of one to make him stay.

‘Why?’ he says instead and it’s fucking lame – lame and not nearly enough.

And Harry knows it.

‘Forget it,’ he says under his breath. When he turns to reach for the door handle, Zayn takes a step forward, but before he can tell him not to go, Harry changes his mind and turns to face him again. ‘The last fortnight has been _miserable_ ,’ he says, hand still on the door. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I was so desperate to see you that as soon we landed, I left my family at the airport and came straight here.’ He shakes his head. ‘There’s still sand between my toes and you’re having a drink with another bloke.’

Zayn does that thing again, where he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, and Harry smiles, a slow, blunt smile that lets Zayn know that he isn’t surprised.

‘I thought I could do this,’ Harry says and it’s so sad that it turns Zayn’s heart inside out. ‘I thought I’d rather have you as a friend than nothing at all but I can’t go back to your flat and sleep in your bed while you’re texting and laughing with someone else.’

Harry nods at Zayn’s phone, which is still in his hand. ‘That was Ant.’ He laughs. ‘He wants me to get him a kebab on the way home.’

Harry blushes and Zayn feels awful. He shouldn’t have laughed. His instinct is to hug him, but when he takes another step towards him, Harry shakes his head again.

‘This is what I mean, Zayn. I can’t do this.’

‘Do _what_?’

‘You have to give me something here ‘cos I’m fucking losing it!’

The shock of it makes Zayn step back. ‘Give you what, Harry?’ he asks, voice wavering because he’s never seen him like that. Never. Harry’s soft, sweet face suddenly nothing but hard lines as he glares across the pub at him and it’s horrible.

Did he do that?

 _I did that_ , Zayn thinks as he frowns at him. ‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘You!’ He balls his hands into fists, his cheeks even redder. ‘You know that, Zayn! Why do you keep acting like you don’t know that?’

‘I’m sorry. I just-’

He doesn’t let him finish. ‘I know. _I’m seventeen_.’

‘Harry-’

He puts his hands on his hips. ‘Zayn, you look at me and all you see is a kid. You think I don’t know _anything_. But I look at you and I think you know too much.’ Zayn can feel him looking at him and tries to lift his chin to meet his gaze but can’t. ‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Sometimes you smile at me and I think my heart’s going to come out of my chest like in a cartoon. But you.’ Zayn looks up as Harry looks away, putting his hands in his hair and pulling. ‘This is nothing, is it? You’ve done this all before.’

Harry doesn’t wait for him to respond. ‘I don’t know who broke your heart, but it doesn’t matter what I say or do, ‘cos you’ll never let me be anything other than the annoying kid who takes your pillow and nicks your chips ‘cos it’s safer that way. So fuck it.’ He lets go of his hair and lets his chin drop to look at Zayn. ‘If I can’t have all of you I don’t want _any_ of you. I know that’s selfish and immature and melodramatic but guess what? _I’m seventeen_. I am selfish and immature and melodramatic because, unlike you, I haven’t seen it all and I want to. So.’ He runs out of steam and sucks in a breath. ‘Bye.’

‘Harry.’

He doesn’t stop so Zayn has to run. Somehow, he manages to get to the door before Harry can open it and puts his arm out to stop him.

He still tries, though.

‘Forget it. There’s nothing you can say, Zayn. _Nothing_.’

He looks so determined as he tugs vainly on the door handle that Zayn wants to kiss the creased skin between his eyebrows, but he kisses his mouth instead. Harry obviously wasn’t expecting him to do that because he gasps, pressing his fingers to his bottom lip when Zayn pulls away.

When he recovers, he lifts his eyelashes. ‘Keep saying stuff like that.’

Zayn kisses him again.

 

+++

 

It’s only a ten-minute walk back to Zayn’s flat, but it takes them almost half an hour because they keep stopping to kiss. They giggle and step on each other’s toes each time they do and it makes Zayn laugh so much that he’s dizzy with it – first cigarette of the day dizzy, just got off the Waltzer dizzy, three pints on an empty stomach dizzy – because he just wants to eat Harry up. Get inside him, actually _inside_ him. Climb his ribs like a ladder and use his heart as a pillow. Devour him in one great greedy gulp.

Zayn doesn’t know how they make it back to his flat, but they do, or how he finds his keys without breaking their kiss, but he does, because all of a sudden he’s kicking the door shut behind them and pushing Harry against the wall. It knocks the air right out of him – Zayn hears it – but before he can apologise, Harry’s mouth is on his again, snatching his breath this time as Zayn pins him to the wall with his hip.

Harry makes this sound when he does, the sound he makes in his sleep. A breathy little _hmm_ that has Zayn licking the inside of his cheek so he’ll do it again. He does and Zayn grinds against him. Harry’s so hard that it make Zayn harder. He thought he had more self-control, but he obviously doesn’t, because before he realises what he’s doing, he’s rutting against him. They’re not even kissing anymore, just panting into each other’s mouths as Harry rolls his hips too. It’s loud and desperate, Harry’s breathy _hmm_ s becoming a strangled _ngh ngh ngh_ somewhere deep in his throat, and when he slips his hands into the back pockets of Zayn’s jeans and pulls him closer, whatever self-control Zayn has abandons him as he comes in his pants as though he’s the horny teenager.

A moment later, Harry comes too, his mouth hot and wet against Zayn’s neck.

‘What was that?’ he says into his skin, but Zayn doesn’t even know.

So he kisses him again.

 

 

 

_August_

 

 

Adam and Karen have a girl who, despite a tireless and well-fought campaign from Harry, they don’t call Harriet, rather Jude, after The Beatles song. Much to Zayn’s bemusement, Harry is dying to see her, so as soon as Adam and Karen bring her home, they go around. They live in a tiny three-up-two down not far from the Hat and Stick that’s too small for Adam’s record collection let alone a baby. Luckily, Jude doesn’t take up much space, which is one of the reasons she makes Zayn so uneasy. He’s not the biggest fan of babies. Maybe when they’re older and have more of a personality (like his cousin, Faiza, who, for reasons known only to herself, will only eat round food) but when they’re that small, they’re so floppy and fragile and boring, frankly.

Harry doesn’t seem to think so, though, so as much as Zayn would rather spend his day off sleeping, he and Harry go to meet Jude. By then Harry’s all but living with Zayn. He doesn’t know what he’s told his parents (and he doesn’t ask, because if anyone knows how hard it is to be honest with your parents, it’s Zayn) but Harry must have told them something because his mum bakes cupcakes. Cupcakes with pink frosting and pink bows that even taste pink somehow. And they must know that he’s working at Piccadilly now, which is why he’s in Manchester so much. Zayn’s pretty sure that he hasn’t told them it’s because he was hanging around him so much that Mal said he might as well give him a job. So he did. Harry’s now in charge of their twitter account and Instagram, which neither Zayn or Mal has ever had much faith in, but tweeting random lyrics and the funny things the customers say works, apparently, because it’s not even been a month and online sales have gone up by 10%. Plus, Steve Lamacq gave them a shout out on his show last night so as much as they tease him for his weakness for Miley Cyrus whatever he’s being paid – and Zayn’s sure it isn’t much – Harry’s earned his keep.

Harry should be thrilled, but he isn’t, because it’s been three weeks (three weeks and five days, not that Zayn’s counting) and despite his varied and ceaseless efforts, he and Zayn still haven’t done it. They could have, loads of times, but every time they’re about to, Ant will bang on the wall and tell them to shut up or Harry will look up at him with heavy eyelids and say, ‘Fuck me,’ and Zayn will shoot his load like he’s the virgin.

It’s all quite odd. Usually it would be over by now. They would’ve shagged then had the awkward I-honestly-don’t-know-what-came-over-me conversation before Zayn changed Harry’s name in his phone to DO NOT ANSWER, so waiting is new territory for Zayn. Harry says it’s because he’s scared and doesn’t want to hurt him and Ant says it’s because he’s scared and doesn’t want Harry to hurt him. (He’s paraphrasing, of course, Ant actually said, ‘You won’t because you know as soon as you fuck him, it’s over.')

Both of those things are true, Zayn knows, but the truth is: it’s too much responsibility. He’d never admit that but it’s Harry’s first time and despite Zayn’s rather louche attitude towards sex, he wants it to be special, whatever that is. He’s not saying there should be candles and rose petals and Barry White, but it shouldn’t be in the bathroom stall of a club or while Ant’s banging on the wall.

The fucked up thing is, though, despite the lack of cock-in-arse action, it’s still the most intimate relationship Zayn has ever been in. (Which is saying something given the threesome he had with those fresher’s last year.) He had no idea he could get such a thrill just from touching someone. Touching in the purest sense of the word – feeling Harry’s skin warm under his finger as he trails it up and down his forearm and blowing on the back of his neck until goose pimples appear. Proper PG-13 shit that Zayn’s never really done before, at least without it leading to more. Kissing and giggling and holding hands while they wander around Manchester as though the whole city is theirs.

Zayn was reluctant at first, when Harry would drag him somewhere after work. He was knackered after being on his feet all day and just wanted to sit down for a few hours, have a puff and, if he was lucky, a disco nap, before he had to go to whatever club he was DJing at that night. But Harry’s determined not to waste the summer and found them loads of free shit to do. They’ve been to art galleries and student fashion shows and had picnics of crisps and beer in Platt Fields as the day dies around them.

Zayn’s lived here two years and he’s seen parts of Manchester he didn’t know existed before this summer. Cafes he and Harry have claimed as their own, benches they’ve carved their initials into, toilet stalls they’ve kissed in until one of them actually needs a piss. And when it’s just the two of them – at 4 a.m. when they get in from a club, buzzing too much to lie still, or in the morning when Zayn won’t kiss Harry until he’s brushed his teeth – their world narrows to Zayn’s room, to his bed and the springs that pinch at their knees and the heels of their palms.

It all feels so new and in a way it is because in his determination to be gentle and patient and kind, Zayn is rediscovering the joy of just kissing. Of slow, teasing blow jobs he makes last until Harry is shaking and sweating and fisting his hands in the sheet beneath him until the corners of pull away to expose the mattress underneath.

Zayn usually prefers guys who are cut, but Harry’s cock is perfect, long and pink and thick enough to make the hinges of his jaw ache in the most delicious way after he’s sucked him off. Zayn loves the feel of it in his hand, his mouth, against his own, and he knows Harry loves it, too because he reacts with no ego – no modesty – just absolute, unfettered delight. He squirms and thrusts and pants. Not that ridiculous porn star panting that leaves Zayn cold – _You’re the best_ … _suck me, Daddy_ – but real, honest to God _panting_. Mostly gibberish or just Zayn’s name, over and over, punctuating every breath.

Sometimes they don’t even touch each other. Like just now, they lay next to one another in the middle of Zayn’s bed and said what they wanted to do to each other while they touched themselves. Every time Harry’s gaze dipped to Zayn’s cock, Zayn told him to look at him and as soon as he did, he’d say the most filthy thing he could think of just to see him blush. It made Zayn blush, too, when he heard himself say it out loud, how he’s going tie Harry up and choke him with his cock, gag him and fuck him, come in him, in his mouth, on his face. ‘When?’ Harry panted, coming first, and thinking about it now, maybe that’s why he doesn’t complain that they haven’t done it. He does, of course, but it’s just whining because he knows Zayn wants him. He can’t keep his hands off him. He licks and nips and bites, sucks heart-coloured bruises down Harry’s chest and hips and between his thighs. A string of breadcrumbs that help Zayn find his way back to his mouth when his eyes won’t focus and Harry won’t lie still.

‘Tell me about your first time,’ Harry asks – after – as they’re drifting off to sleep, Zayn on his back and Harry curled into his side, drawing hearts on Zayn’s stomach with the tip of his finger while Zayn does the same on his shoulder.

‘Yeah it was good.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Johnny.’

‘Did you go to school with him?’

‘No.’ Zayn looks up at the crack in the ceiling even though he can’t see it in the dark. ‘He worked in a record shop I used to go in all the time.’

‘Was he cute?’

‘Not as cute as you,’ Zayn says, stroking his shoulder with his thumb.

Harry shivers and rests his head on Zayn’s chest. ‘Was he the first guy you liked?’

‘No, but he was the first guy who liked me back.’

‘Did he kiss you first?’

‘He had to.’ Zayn chuckles softly. ‘I would never have had the guts.’

Harry lifts his head to press a kiss to Zayn’s stomach. ‘Did you wait?’

‘We should have.’

‘How come?’

‘It hurt, for a start.’

‘That bad?’ Harry must feel him tense because he lifts his head to look at Zayn’s face. He can’t see much in the dark, but it still makes Zayn’s cheeks sting.

‘It put me off for ages.’

Harry presses his cheek to Zayn’s chest again and it’s hotter than it just was.

‘I couldn’t handle it. Doing it straight away meant that I got emotionally attached too quick,’ Zayn stops to swallow, ‘so when he left I was in bits.’

‘Why did he leave?’

‘Spoiler alert:’ Zayn chuckles again, bitterly this time, ‘they always do.’

Harry’s the one who tenses then and Zayn immediately regrets it because it’s the cruellest thing he’s ever said to him. He wants to pull Harry to him, tell him that it feels so good, the two of them tangled up so tightly it’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins, that Zayn said it to remind himself because he can’t do that again.

But he kisses the top of Harry’s head instead. ‘He was in a band.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘No one you would have heard of. But they were big for a while.’

‘What were they called?’

‘Schrödinger's Cat. They supported Bloc Party.’

‘Is that why you broke up? Because he was on the road?’

‘We didn’t even break up. We tried the long distance thing for a while but eventually he stopped calling me back and I stopped calling.’

‘That’s sad.’

Zayn doesn’t say it – these things never last – but Harry must still hear it because he rolls away from him onto his back.

 

 

+++

 

It’s the last weekend in August. Zayn knows it’s his imagination but he’s sure he feels the shift. It’s still hot, the sun just as loud, burning through his curtains in the morning to wake him up, but it doesn’t linger like it used to. Each day is a little shorter, or maybe it just feels that way as Zayn feels the threat of September, of going back to uni and not waking up to find Harry’s leg slung over his hip, coming at him like a freight train.

The thought keeps him awake most nights as he tugs on the tuft of hair under his bottom lip so hard that he doesn’t know how there’s any left. He’s already had a text about the first back to uni party and last week he gave his reading list to Carla in the _Oxfam_ bookshop. They have a deal where he DJs at her birthday and she puts aside the books he needs when they come in. His mother was mortified when she found out he was using second-hand ones. She threatened to get a second job, but Zayn told her not to be silly. Yeah he gets them because they’re cheap, but he likes used books, likes the smell of them and the things people leave inside, receipts and bus tickets and photographs. And he likes that sometimes he doesn’t need to highlight something because the person who read it before him did. It’s like he’s part of a book club of people he’ll never meet.

But going to see Carla means the summer is over. Soon the sun won’t be as loud and the trees will rust over and Zayn will be able to wear his leather jacket again. It’s time to start thinking about stuff like reading lists and back to uni parties and not seeing Harry every day and Zayn knew it was coming, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready. That’s why he can’t sleep, because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to without Harry there. Zayn’s got used to his snoring and to sleeping with one pillow. Got used to finding Harry’s hair on everything, like a fucking cat. Thin, dark strands that let Zayn know that Harry was here and here and here. It’s strange thing, to miss someone when they’re lying next to you, but Zayn already does. Misses how his deodorant smells different on Harry and how he has to watch the news before he goes to bed. Stupid things that shouldn’t mean as much but will feel like bullet holes when he’s gone.

But if Harry notices, he doesn’t say anything. He could sleep through a fucking tsunami so he doesn’t know Zayn’s awake most nights, and when he does, he’s appeased when he says he needs a piss or tells him off for hogging the duvet. But that’s what Zayn loves most about Harry, how he doesn’t think past the end of the day, let alone the end of the week. Every moment is brand new, the start of another adventure, however small. This morning it was making French toast for the first time and yesterday it was taking Jude to the park so Karen could get some sleep. They only went for half an hour, but Zayn missed Harry the whole time, even though he was right there, because he knew he’d never do something like that again, never take Jude to the park to feed the ducks even though he could, because only Harry would think of doing something like that on a Thursday afternoon.

Harry’s next to him now, lying on his back on the picnic bench in the beer garden at the Hat and Stick, hands on his stomach and his chin tilted up towards the sun. Zayn is lying next to him, the pair of them wearing the sunglasses they bought in the 99p shop last week – Zayn’s green and Harry’s red – and when Zayn catches himself missing him, he sits up because he’s fucking doing it again.

He’s thinking too much.

‘Do you want to do something tomorrow?’

Harry doesn’t hesitate. ‘Always.’

‘Let’s just fuck off somewhere.’

‘Bali?’

‘I was thinking more like Blackpool.’

‘The Bali of the North.’

‘We,’ Zayn starts to say then stops to shrug so he at least looks nonchalant even if he sounds anything but. ‘We could stay the night.’

Harry sits up and takes his sunglasses off. ‘Are we finally going to fuck, Malik?’

Sid stubs out his cigarette and goes back into the pub.

 

+++

 

They get the train. Harry’s so excited he wakes Zayn up at seven. If he could raise his arms to strangle him he would (especially when he starts singing, _I’m getting laid_ ) but he does summon the energy to tell him to fuck off. Zayn doesn’t know what else he says when Harry ignores him – mostly gibberish punctuated with a fuck every now and then to make it sound vaguely threatening – but he’s loud enough to wake Ant up.

‘It’s Sunday.’ He bangs on the wall. ‘Have mercy.’

‘Sorry!’ Harry says, but he isn’t at all as he takes Zayn by the ankle and pulls him out of the bed. Zayn doesn’t go quietly, which makes Ant bang on the wall again as Harry climbs on top of Zayn, pinning him to the floor. ‘Babe, it’s Sunday.’

‘Don’t call me babe,’ Zayn hisses, even though he loves it.

‘It’s the last Sunday in August.’

‘So?’

‘Blackpool’s going to be heaving.’

He’s right, Zayn’s horrified to learn, the train packed when they get on.

‘It’s 8 o’clock on a Sunday,’ he says to no one in particular as he scowls at everyone on the carriage. It’s full of old dears in sunhats and families – dads in dad shorts and kids in _Crocs_ , their skinny arms and legs already chalky with sun cream ready for a day at the seaside – taking up the seats and clogging the aisle with cooler bags that make Zayn think of those Sundays at Lytham St Anne's when they were kids, his mother up at the crack of dawn to fill theirs with _Capri-Sun_ and cheese sandwiches. It’s almost enough to make him smile, but when he nearly trips on a suitcase, his scowl deepens.

Harry – who would find a _McDonald’s_ in the midst of a nuclear holocaust – has spotted a two-seater, much to Zayn’s relief because he doesn’t have the energy to deal with a kid kicking him all the way to Blackpool. He lets Harry have the seat next to the window even though there’s a toddler in a dinosaur t-shirt running up and down the aisle. ‘Don’t you want to sleep?’ Harry asks, but Zayn insists because he knows he likes to look out the window. When he does, Harry takes his hand and presses a kiss to it and Zayn wonders if that’s love, caring about someone else more than yourself. It feels like it when Harry leaves him be even though he’s so excited he’s fidgeting, then covers him with his jacket when Zayn falls asleep as soon as the train pulls out of the station.

They get to Blackpool just before nine-thirty. Zayn’s slept enough on the train to have mustered enough energy to start moaning again because there’s no earthly reason that they need to be in Blackpool at nine-fucking-thirty on a Sunday morning. The shops haven’t even opened yet. He makes sure Harry knows that, but Harry has the sense just to nod and say, ‘I know.’ That knocks the wind out of his sails, so when he reaches for his hand, Zayn doesn’t say anything, just lets Harry lead him towards the promenade.

Given his uneasy relationship with the sea, it’s odd that Zayn loves the seaside so much. But as long as it stays where it is, it’s cool. Harry knows that; it’s the first secret Zayn told him, one night while they were waiting for their chips in the kebab shop. Zayn made a dig about Harry’s age that sounded harsher than he intended so his punishment was to tell him a secret. Zayn told him he was scared of the sea and Harry was unimpressed, clearly hoping for something involving being caught wanking, but Zayn realises that he hasn’t mentioned going to the beach and hasn’t brought a towel, so as they approach the promenade, he squeezes Harry’s hand.

‘There she is,’ Zayn says as soon as they see the Blackpool Tower.

Harry frowns. ‘It’s red.’

‘Yeah. What colour did you think it was?’

‘Black, like the Eiffel Tower.’

‘The Eiffel Tower’s brown.’

Harry looks horrified. ‘No it’s not.’

‘It is.’

‘Really? It looks black in the print in my sister’s bedroom.’

‘Is it a black and white print?’

Harry doesn’t say anything, just peers up at it. ‘It’s red.’

Zayn hasn’t been here for years, but the promenade is just as he remembers: too bright, even in the day, the shop fronts and arcades painted red and blue and ice cream yellow with papier mache mermaids and pirates perched on top. It’ll be even worse later, when the lights come on. The poor man’s Las Vegas people call it, but Zayn doesn’t feel hard done by at all as the breeze rearranges Harry’s curls so they look even wilder. He’s never been here before, so Zayn can’t help but wonder what he makes of it, Harry, who’s just been to Cyprus and stayed in a hotel that Zayn absolutely, definitely did not look up on the Internet and does not have a pool bar that you can swim up to. Blackpool doesn’t just pale in comparison, it disappears, even with it’s rowdy arcades and papier mache mermaids. But there’s something kind of sweet about it, Zayn thinks – something kind of old fashioned – with its deckchairs and sticks of rock and donkey rides. And Harry must do too because he’s smiling when he tugs Zayn into a café, a tiny place with brown plastic chairs and a dog-eared copy of _The Mirror_ on every table. It smells of fried bread and cheap tomato sauce, but it’s Zayn’s Shangri-La.

He kisses Harry’s cheek when they sit at one of the tables because it’s just what he needs: food. They eat scrambled eggs and drink over brewed tea from chipped mugs and Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy. And while he’d never underestimate the power of a decent brew, he knows it’s Harry because a few months ago, Zayn would never have done this, blown money that he can’t spare going to Blackpool. But that’s just what he needs, too, to be somewhere new, chatting to a waitress who doesn’t know his name. And when he looks out the window, Zayn doesn’t see the kebab shop or the Korean shop or any of the other things he usually sees when he looks out a window. Everything is big and bright and unexplored. There are benches they haven’t carved their initials into yet. Parks they haven’t sat in, eating crisps and drinking warm beer.

‘Come on,’ he says, taking Harry’s hand and leading him out into it.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks with a slow smile.

‘Everywhere.’

 

+++

 

The promenade is packed and when Zayn’s brave enough to look across at the beach, that is too, people claiming their spots with beach towels and striped windbreaks as children run towards the sea then squeal when he it reaches out to touch their toes.

Zayn would usually be irritated by the racket, everything around them making noise – tram bells and fruit machines and clowns laughing maniacally in glass cases – but it doesn’t bother him at all as he slings his arm around Harry’s shoulders and leads him past The Sands. Harry nudges him when he does. ‘Too Rex,’ he grins, nodding at the poster. When Zayn chuckles and steers him around the queue outside Pirate Adventure, he wonders if he could get that in Cyprus, a three course meal and a T Rex tribute band for £29.99. He’s about to ask but Harry’s looking over his shoulder at the queue.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Mini golf.’

‘I wanna play!’

‘Later, when it’s calmed down.’

‘What’s this?’ Harry asks as they pass _Sea Life_.

‘An aquarium.’

‘What’s that?’

That’s how it goes for the next half hour, until Zayn finds the arcade he’s been looking for. He can’t help but smile when he sees it because it’s just as bright – and loud – as he remembers, his heart trilling at the blinking lights and metallic splash of coins spilling out of fruit machines. It even smells the same, of popcorn and hot dogs and those slushies he and Doniya would drink until their tongues turned blue.

As soon as Zayn tells Harry about them, he goes off in search of one, leaving Zayn to feed the 2p game that is as addictive as it was when he was thirteen, the pile just one more coin away from spilling over the edge. By the time Harry returns with two slushies – one red, one blue – Zayn’s lost a fiver, but he gets it straight back when Harry decides to have a go. He takes two-pence from Zayn, puts it in and of course it lands in just the right spot for the slidey thing to push the coins off the edge, much to Harry’s delight.

He looks so happy that Zayn tells him to keep it. He uses his winnings to buy one of those _BLACKPOOL IS FOR LOVERS_ t-shirts that he immediately Instagrams a picture of. When Harry puts it on, Zayn rolls his eyes, pretending to hate it, but he already knows that he’s going to hide it when they back so Harry can’t take it when he leaves.

He’s thinking again, so Zayn leads Harry into a photo booth and pulls him into his lap. They smile sweetly, cheeks pressed together, but they’re still in there long after the photos are ready as they kiss until Zayn’s so hard he has to stop. When Harry gets off his lap, Zayn waits for him to clamber out of the tiny booth, but he doesn’t, getting on his knees instead. Before Zayn clocks what he’s doing, his cock is in Harry’s hand and his breath catches in his throat as he thinks about all the kids outside, eating candyfloss and playing air hockey. But then Harry takes him in his mouth and he doesn’t care.

It’s swift and sloppy but so, so good, Zayn more than happy to be the one to help Harry perfect his technique, which he certainly has, because in a few minutes, he’s coming. He warns him, but when Harry doesn’t stop, Zayn holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold off. But he can’t as Harry sucks him so hard Zayn’s ass rises off the stool he’s sitting on and whimpers his name. He dips his hand into Zayn’s jeans to squeeze his balls and Zayn is undone, biting down on his lip and whimpering Harry’s name again when he realises that he’s swallowing.

Zayn lands back on the stool with a gasp, his eyelids fluttering as he watches Harry stand up and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s fucking obscene, as are his lips, which look red raw, so when Harry is tucking him back into his jeans, Zayn fists his hands in his t-shirt and pulls him into a kiss that makes Harry’s whimper this time.

‘When?’ Harry mewls when Zayn peels his mouth away. Harry is in his lap again, palming him through his jeans and Zayn has to stop otherwise he’s going to fuck him in this fucking photo booth, something Harry clearly doesn’t object to as he rolls his hips.

‘Later,’ Zayn breathes, closing his eyes as Harry takes the opportunity to dip his tongue back into mouth. Then they’re kissing again, fierce and deep and Zayn can’t.

He can’t.

‘Come on,’ he says, moving Harry’s hand out of his lap, but it does nothing to dissuade him as he grins groggily and kisses Zayn again.

‘Now,’ he breathes into Zayn’s mouth.

‘Later.’

‘But I’m ready now.’

Zayn knows, he can feel how hard he is, but they’ve waited this long.

‘Later.’

 

+++

 

A few months ago, they would’ve been in the disabled toilet by now, Harry bent over the sink and Zayn’s hand in his hair, holding his face up to the mirror so he can see Harry’s flushed cheeks and half-open eyes as he fucks him, but this is better. Zayn had no idea waiting would turn him on so much, but there’s a certain thrill to spending the day with someone knowing how it’s going to end. To knowing, I’m going to touch you later.

They kiss everywhere. Everywhere. On every bench and every street corner in Blackpool. And each time they do, Zayn slips his hands into the back pockets of Harry’s jeans as he’s pulling away and whispers, ‘Later.’ It makes Harry giddy, his eyes wild as Zayn takes his hand and leads him into another arcade. Sometimes they don’t even make it that far and only make it as far as the next lamppost before they’re kissing again.

By the time the sun sets they’re drunk on it. They’ve gone into every arcade and walked the length of each pier. Harry’s worn a hole into the sole of his _Converse_ so they seek refuge on a bench, the soft toy banana Zayn won him in the last arcade they were in by way of an apology for beating him at crazy golf (Harry’s surprisingly competitive) on the bench between them. They’re eating fish and chips and Zayn doesn’t know if it’s the sea air or the fact that the sea doesn’t look as scary from the bench, but it’s the best fish and chips he’s ever had. Harry agrees because as soon as he’s inhaled his own, he starts in on his despite Zayn’s repeated attempts to stab his hand with his chip fork.

Harry’s threatening to go back to the chip shop to get another portion when they see a woman coming towards them down the promenade. She’s walking her dog; a chocolate brown Labrador who stops when he sees Zayn then starts bounding towards him, bringing her with him. ‘Whoa, Barney,’ she gasps, but when she sees that he’s running towards Zayn, who is waiting with open arms, she smiles and lets go of the lead. He scoops the puppy up and kisses his warm head, giggling as he wriggles in his arms.

‘Hello, Barney,’ Harry says, kissing him, too. ‘Are you having a good day?’

It makes the puppy even more hysterical as he yelps, clearly unsure which of them to lick first. He goes for Zayn and in that moment, his heart suddenly feels to big for his chest like it did the other day when he and Harry took Jude to the park. And he misses him again, even though he’s sitting right next to him, playing with the puppy’s ears. He realises why then, as his life flashes before him – marriage and puppies and kids and day trips to Blackpool. Not the life he’s had, rather the life he’ll never have with Harry and it makes him sick with sadness as he hugs the puppy.

Zayn doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that shit. He’s only twenty, why the fuck is he thinking about getting married when he should be thinking of finding them a hotel room? But it’s Harry and that's the way he’s made him feel since he walked into his living room that night in May, like he could leave at any moment and he needs to hold on.

‘You okay?’ the woman asks, suddenly in front of them. When Zayn looks up, she puts a hand in her long hair to keep it back as the breeze blows it into her eyes, and she almost doesn’t look real in her long white dress, like some sort of siren.

‘Yeah.’ She looks at him like she doesn’t believe him, so he adds, ‘Just tired.’

‘Of what?’ That startles him and she smiles. ‘Sorry. I tend do that.’

‘What?’

‘Say the things people don’t want me to say out loud.’

‘What? Are you like psychic, or something?’

‘I guess.’

Zayn tries not to roll his eyes because psychics are two a penny in Blackpool. Not like the ones on the telly who deliberately ask vague questions like, ‘Does anyone’s name begin with a C?’ But proper old-fashioned circus psychics who read crystal balls and will tell you anything you want to hear if you cross their palm with silver.

Harry, however, is thrilled. ‘ _No way_! Can you tell the future and stuff?’

She just smiles.

‘I’m in a band,’ he tells her then shakes his head. ‘But you know that, right?’

Zayn can’t help but roll his eyes then, holding Barney up and frowning at him as if to say, ‘Can you believe that I’m in love with this goob?’

But neither of them notices as Harry grins. ‘Are we gonna make it?’

‘No,’ she says and it’s so blunt that Zayn laughs. He covers his mouth with his hand when he looks at Harry, who looks devastated, trying not to laugh again when he realises that he’s about to lose another £20 winning him another banana.

‘Cheers,’ Harry says with a grumpy sigh.

‘But you two will,’ she winks, reaching down to take the puppy from Zayn.

The pair of them look at each other then smile clumsily.

‘Not if he keeps nicking my chips,’ Zayn grumbles, nudging Harry with his knee.

‘Hold on.’ She smiles knowingly.

 _Hold onto what?_ he almost asks, but before he can, she uses one of Barney’s paws to say goodbye to them then continues down the promenade.

‘Am I going to lose my flower tonight?’ Harry calls after her.

Zayn kicks him this time.

 

+++

 

There’s much to be said for spontaneity, except when you’re trying to find a B&B on the last Sunday of summer. Everywhere’s booked, at least everywhere they can afford. Zayn’s checking to see if they’ve missed the last train but Harry isn’t so willing to admit defeat and insists he use the credit card his parents gave him for emergencies.

‘This isn’t an emergency,’ Zayn tells him without looking up from his phone.

‘How isn’t _this_ an emergency?’

‘Is anything on fire?’

‘My loins!’

‘Will you calm down?’

‘No!’ Harry points at him. ‘You said later and it’s later.’

‘We’ll find somewhere to stay.’

They’re so busy bickering that they haven’t noticed the stretch Hummer that’s pulled up next to them. It’s pink and pumping out Katy Perry so it’s hard to miss, but the promenade’s cluttered with limos now it’s dark. Zayn was amused by how startled Harry was by it. Everyone knows Blackpool is hen party central, but when you’ve spent the day dodging kids with ice cream cones and old people on mobility scooters it’s hard to believe that the wholesome seaside town becomes so lively after dark. They’ve already been stopped twice – once by a bride-to-be in L plates who'd been challenged to have her photo taken with as many blokes as possible and another who insisted they do shots with her – but Harry’s no longer in the mood.

‘You need somewhere to stay, love?’ A woman about their age asks Zayn, sticking her head out the window. She’s wearing a tiara and holding a champagne bottle. Zayn ignores her as she takes a swig, but she persists. ‘Plenty of room on my face.’

‘He likes cock, love,’ Harry snaps, taking Zayn by the arm and leading him away.

Horny Harry is grumpy Harry, Zayn realises as he drags him down a side street, muttering darkly. Zayn is aching to tease him for it, tell him not to worry, he’s gonna get laid, even if they have to do it on the beach, but before he can, Harry sighs.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, hand in his hair, and he says it so quietly that Zayn almost doesn’t hear him.

They’ve only been walking for a few minutes, but the street they’re on is so ordinary with it’s terrace houses and wheelie bins that they feel far, far away from the sparkle of the promenade. Zayn can see the light of a television through the net curtains of every house they pass, and he can’t help but think of Sunday nights at home, of his mum’s pork chops and ironing his shirt for school and sitting on the living room floor because there’s not enough room on the sofa, watching You’ve Been Framed.

‘’Salright.’ Zayn slips his phone into his back pocket. ‘I do love cock.’

Harry grins, slow and wicked. ‘Especially mine, right?’

‘Yeah. Yours is top ten, at least.’

‘Top ten?’ Harry nudges him with his hip and Zayn sighs theatrically.

‘Alright. Top five.’

Harry throws his head back and laughs and before Zayn knows it, he’s hooked his finger into his belt loop and they’re kissing again. Harry pulls away first this time, though, and it’s for the best because Zayn’s ready to fuck him right here in the street.

‘Look,’ Harry says, eyes wide as he points over Zayn’s shoulder at the house they’re standing in front of. When he turns to see what he’s pointing at, he thinks it’s just another B&B, but when he takes Zayn’s hand and leads towards the front door, he realises why Harry’s so excited.

There’s a VACANCIES sign.

 

+++

 

There’s one room left, on the top floor in the eaves of the house. It’s unreasonably hot up there – even with the window open – and the ceiling’s so low that they have to dip their heads, but they’re the only ones up there which is all Zayn wants.

All he ever wants.

He’s thought about this moment many times (usually when he’s wanking in the shower) but it isn’t what he expected. Given that they’ve been teasing each other all day, he thought they’d be ripping each other’s clothes off as soon as they closed the door, but Harry is surprisingly quiet, his cheeks flushed as he plays with his hair then puts his hands on his hips then puts them back in his hair again. Zayn’s nervous, too, for the first time ever it’s just them and a bed and he hasn’t got the excuse of not wanting to wake Ant or not having enough room in the tiny bathroom stall they’re wedged into. Or at least he hopes that Harry is nervous and isn’t about to admit defeat in a game of gay chicken Zayn didn’t realise they were playing. But he’s reassured when he presses a kiss to his throat and says, ‘We have all night,’ and Harry giggles, eyelashes fluttering.

They make tea using the tiny kettle and drink it sitting on the bed sharing the pack of shortbread as they flick through the photos they’ve taken. ‘I’m making this my lock screen,’ Harry smiles, showing Zayn the photo of him doing his best duck face in the KISS ME QUICK hat he wouldn’t let Harry buy but relented to trying on. It isn’t until he changes it that Zayn realises that Harry’s already using a photo of him as his lock screen, the one he took of Zayn the last time they were in Platt Fields, a copy of _Just Kids_ between his fingers. He doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed.

‘Hey,’ he says softly, leaning over to nudge Harry with his nose.

‘Hey,’ he says with a smile that Zayn feels when he presses his mouth to his.

It’s a slow, delicate kiss, the sound of it – the soft smack of their lips and the murmur Harry makes when he parts his and their tongues touch – making Zayn shiver. But when he drops his phone on the bed to take Harry’s face in his hands, he stops him.

‘What?’ Zayn breathes. ‘Am I going too fast?’

‘No.’ Harry gulps and shakes his head. ‘I just need to say something now because in about thirty second I’m not going to be able to speak at all.’

Zayn’s spine feels as tight as a guitar string as he sits back and holds his breath because he knows this is it.

This is the I-don’t-think-I-can-do-this conversation.

‘Okay.’ Harry sits back, too, and when he sees how hot his cheeks are, Zayn’s heart throbs because he knows it’s nothing to do with the kiss. ‘Okay. So I was going to give you an ultimatum tonight but as I said, I’m trying to be all cool and _whatever_ ,’ he waves his hands around, ‘and not seventeen about this-’

‘An ultimatum?’ Zayn frowns and Harry holds his hand up.

‘Just listen, okay?’

Zayn nods carefully.

‘I get why you wanted to wait, but I wish we hadn’t.’

Zayn hears the tremor in his voice and something in him tenses. ‘Why?’

Harry shakes his head as if he doesn’t want to say it, but he does. ‘Because I’m not cool and _whatever_.’ He sighs sadly. ‘I’m seventeen and I’m an idiot and I fell in love with you. I know I shouldn’t have, I know we were supposed to just be this summer thing, but I fell in love and I’m sorry but now I can’t do this if you’re going to leave.’

When he stops for breath, Zayn tries to speak, but Harry doesn’t let him. ‘So if this is it, if you don’t want to do this, if you don’t want me to be your boyfriend, which _I know_ ,’ he closes his eyes and sighs, ‘makes me sound fourteen not seventeen, but that’s what I want, I’m sorry. I want _you_ , all of you. You bitching about me nicking your chips and using up all the hot water in the morning and groaning every time I Instagram something and you singing Miley Cyrus and not realising it and giving me the seat by the window and letting me have your favourite pillow. All of it.’

‘Harry-’

‘Please. This is so hard. Just let me say this,’ he puts his hand in his hair. ‘So if you don’t want to do this then I can’t do this,’ he nods at the bed, ‘because I’d rather you were just that guy. That guy I had an amazing summer with and still think about in ten years when I’m married with kids and smile every time I hear an Arctic Monkeys song.’

‘Okay,’ Harry fists his hand in his hair, his cheeks a little pinker, ‘that totally sounds like an ultimatum, but it really isn’t, I promise. I just want to know, you know?’

Zayn nods.

‘So any time you feel like saying something, please do.’

Zayn nods again.

‘ _Any_ time, Zayn.’

He nods again and Harry looks ready to burst into tears so he smiles, because he can’t tease him any more. ‘You are an idiot.’ When Harry’s face falls, Zayn leans over to press a kiss to his mouth. ‘But you’re my idiot.’

He doesn’t even know how he can say it his heart is beating so hard, as though it’s trying to get out of his chest to kiss Harry, too.

When he smiles, it nearly does. ‘I am?’ Zayn kisses him again and Harry gets all flustered, his cheeks even redder. ‘Aw. I’m your idiot.’

‘You really are.’

‘So we’re doing this?’

‘We’re doing this.’

Harry grins. ‘Okay,’ he bounces on the bed, ‘you can fuck me now. But,’ he points at Zayn and arches an eyebrow. ‘You have to say it first?’

‘Say what?’

‘You know what?’

Zayn reaches for his wrist. ‘I’ll write it in your hand.’

 

+++

 

Zayn does say it, of course, a few moments later when he’s pulling Harry into his lap. ‘I love you,’ he breathes, pressing a kiss to his throat and shivering when he feels the _bat bat bat_ of Harry’s pulse against his lips. And he says it again when he’s fighting with his jeans. ‘I can’t believe I’m in love with someone who wears fucking skinny jeans,’ he hisses when he can’t get them off, the jeans either too tight or Harry’s legs too sweaty.

It’s perhaps the least sexy thing to do, grapple with a pair of jeans. Except it is, because Harry’s laughing too. Not at the indignity of it, but out of sheer joy, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright when Zayn finally manages to prise them off him.

They take it slow, not because Zayn’s worried that he’ll hurt Harry, but because he’s acutely aware of the fact that he needs to remember every moment. Remember what the skin on the back of Harry’s neck tastes like and what he looks like spread out on the bed in front of him, legs open, his back arching and his heels digging into the mattress every time Zayn’s teeth nip at his collarbones. So Zayn leaves the light on so he can see it all - all of him – and the shadow he casts across Harry’s chest when he leans over him. See it all and taste it all, Zayn kissing him everywhere, not just his mouth, but the warm patch of skin under his chin and behind his knees and his wrists, Harry’s pulse fluttering against Zayn’s lips as though there’s a bird trapped under his skin.

First they just stroke one other and pant against each other’s mouths until Harry starts saying, ‘Please,’ over and over, like it’s all he can say. So Zayn gives his cock one last tug and climbs off the bed. Harry watches as he does, stroking himself now as Zayn walks to the foot of the bed and takes him by the ankles. He pulls Harry towards him so his ass is at the edge and as soon as he does, Harry brings his knees up to touch his chest then rests his feet on Zayn’s shoulders when he kneels on the floor in front of him.

Zayn could just suck his finger, but he takes the time to squeeze some lube out of the tiny bottle he’s been carrying around in his pocket all day that Harry seems to think won’t last them the night. It’s worth it because his middle finger slides easily into him and the sound Harry makes is enough to make Zayn’s cock twitch against his thigh. He tells him how well he’s doing as he eases another finger into him, working it in and out while Harry furiously fists his cock. He’s never used more than two fingers, but he wants to make sure Harry’s ready and moves his hand back then tries to push a third finger into him. Harry goes rigid and he’s suddenly so quiet that Zayn worries that he’s hurt him. But then Harry’s head rises of the bed as he comes with a breathless. ‘Oh _fuck_!’

‘That feel good?’ Zayn asks, licking his lips.

Harry nods, his eyes closed and his cheeks a delicious shade of pink.

‘You ready for me?’

Harry opens his eyes and nods, pushing his hips down on Zayn’s fingers to let him know that he is. He makes the neediest sound when he does and even though he’s desperate to get inside him, Zayn can’t help but lick him when he eases his fingers out. Harry makes the sound again, squirming on the bed as Zayn starts to lick him with slow wet circles until Harry’s hips are bucking and he’s threatening to come again. He won’t, Zayn knows, it just feels that way as he strokes Harry’s prostate with his finger and licks his balls. When he scissors his fingers open and works his tongue inside him this time, Zayn could come just like that, get off on Harry’s pants and pleas, but he can’t wait.

‘You sure you’re ready?’ Zayn wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘Harry nods.’

‘Look at me.’ He does, peeling his eyelids open and licking his lips when he sees the bottle of lube in Zayn’s hands. ‘Show me how ready.’

Harry’s eyelids flutter with the effort as he sits up a little and lifts his leg. Zayn shouldn’t because he’s about to come any second, but when Harry slips his hand under his thigh and starts to insert his middle finger inside himself, he starts fisting his cock.

‘That feel good, babe?’ he asks, but his eyes are on Harry’s hand as he begins to finger himself. He looks so fucking beautiful that Zayn’s about ready to admit defeat and shoot his load on his stomach, but then Harry eases another finger into himself and when he opens them with a whimper, Zayn accepts the invitation.

‘Keep your fingers there,’ he says, kneeling on the bed between his legs, still stroking his erection. Harry mewls when Zayn eases the tip of his cock into him, his toes splaying as Zayn reaches for his right ankle with his free hand and hold his leg up.

‘Fuck,’ Zayn spits out, exhaling though his nose as he pushes in deeper. He’s so tight and his fingers feel so good, Harry’s knuckles catching on the head of his cock as Zayn pushes his hips forward, but he won’t get in any deeper with them there.

‘Move your hand,’ he says, drawing his hips back. Harry cups Zayn’s elbows with his hands when he does, closing his eyes as he begins to ease back into him.

‘Does it hurt?’ Zayn asks when he gasps.

Harry nods.

‘Do you want me to stop?’

He shakes his head.

‘Are you sure?’

Harry opens his eyes. ‘This it, isn’t it?’ he asks, all eyelashes and pink cheeks.

 _This is it_ , Zayn thinks, leaning down to kiss him.

 

+++

 

Whatever they’re doing, they make sure that they spend a weekend in Blackpool every summer. Zayn still complains when he has to get up at 7 a.m. and Harry still pouts when he loses at crazy golf and even though they can afford to stay somewhere more salubrious now, they still stay in the same B&B, in that tiny room in the eaves. Their mates think they’re mad and that's okay, because not everyone does. So, as a seaside psychic once told them, when you find someone who understands you, hold on.

 


End file.
